Wish Upon a Star: A Brief History of Great Britain
by M. Christine Armstrong
Summary: When Arthur Kirkland was brought to Camelot in 489 A.D., he had no idea that he had just begun a journey that would take him around the globe. He had no idea that he would live centuries after people he knew had died. And he had no idea how many times his heart would feel the joys of love - and all the pain that came with it. His name is Great Britain. And this is his story.
1. Chapter 1

_'Hetalia: Axis Powers' property of Hidekaz Himaruya._

_Reader discretion is advised._

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_Even the smallest things can make me remember. It's not that I don't remember the things that have happened in the God-knows-how-many-centuries I've been alive, but quite frankly I try not to think about them. My memories contain too much blood, too many bullets, and far too much pain for me to __want__ to think about them. It'd drive me mad._

_…Oh. Oh dear, how bloody rude of me. I beg your pardon, ladies and gentlemen, I haven't properly introduced myself. Arthur Kirkland, at your service. Or, if you prefer, United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Or just Britain. It doesn't matter, really; I answer to all of them. _

_For you see, gentle reader, I am the anthropomorphic personification of the British nation. I have been for a very, very long time. And although I realize that it sounds like bollocks, it's true. You'll have to trust me on that._

_You wouldn't know it looking at me, though. I appear to be perfectly normal. Young; short, golden blond hair; light green eyes; not very tall; slightly overlarge eyebrows (yes, I will admit that my eyebrows are a __little__ big); six-string tattoo on the upper part of my right arm; pierced ears. All right, so the index finger on my right hand is missing, but that can be attributed to all sorts of accidents and mishaps. Not unusual at all, to most people. Perfectly human in every way._

_Perfectly human. Oh, how bloody accurate that description is for us personifications. We act human. We speak human. We think human._

_We __feel__ human. _

_I sometimes wonder what it would be like to feel no emotion. To simply go through life unfeeling, uncaring. Part of me believes that it would be better, or at least easier; at least then it wouldn't hurt so much when…when things happen. But another part of me is reminded that not all emotions hurt, that some soothe or even – God forbid – __heal__ the old wounds, and it makes me wonder whether all the pain is worth it. _

_Regardless, sometimes I'll see or hear or feel or smell or taste something and, whether I damn well want them to or not, the memories come back, along with all the feelings attached to them. The adrenaline and confusion of war, the numbness and despair of many a realization, the bitterness and hurt of abandonment or betrayal – and always, without fail, the hope, the fear, the pain and the bliss that I would spend years associating with a certain pair of sky blue eyes. _

_I could tell you about all this, if you like. _

_I could tell you everything. It's not like you would tell anyone, because to be honest, who would believe you? Who would believe you if you said that you knew the story of a man whose earliest memory is of a lakeside in 5__th__ century Wales?_

* * *

Part I

By the Waters of Avalon

* * *

**Chapter 1**

**October 31, circa 489 A.D.**

**Llyn Llydaw, Wales**

Yes, a lakeside. The lakeside of Llyn Llydaw, actually. That is my earliest memory. I try to remember the time before, honestly I do, but I was so young and so much time has passed that anything before then is a haze of colors and images. I remember mostly the woodlands I wandered through, all the trees and flowers and animals, and I remember that everything seemed so very large to me. I was only a child, you know, physically no older than six and small even for my age. I can remember splashing in the streams in my bare feet (I didn't have shoes, only a small shift that I must have gotten at some point or another) and climbing up almost every tree I came upon, but that's about it. The earliest thing I can remember with any degree of clarity is that night in October.

It was late evening, and a thick fog covered the region like a woolen blanket. I was walking along the side of the lake, not really doing anything, when I heard voices some distance ahead of me. I remember thinking that they were very nice voices, soft and lyrical, but steady. Curious, I ran towards these voices, the sandy mud oozing up through my toes.

I don't know how long it was before I saw them. Fog is always such a bloody nuisance when you're trying to find something, and this one in particular was a very thick fog, as thick as beef stew. Eventually, however, I was able to make out a small, makeshift dock with a little white boat tied to it, and standing on the dock were two women. My curiosity still threatening to kill the proverbial cat, I walked as close to the dock as I dared and looked up at these two people I had discovered.

The first seemed to be about forty and, as I remember, looked a bit like a crane. She had very pale skin, hollow cheeks and silver-blonde curls pulled into an elegant chignon. The second was younger, no older than twenty-five and looked more like an owl. Also very pale, but moonfaced and with wavy, blue-black hair that fell to the middle of her back. They were talking about someone I had never heard of before. Someone named Arthur.

"Has your brother set up Leodegrance's table?" the woman with silver hair said.

The dark-haired woman nodded. "Arthur has."

"And the knights?"

"Launcelot du Lac, my nephew Gawain and his brothers, Pellinore's son Perceval, Trystan of Cornwall, Urien's son Yvain, the one-handed knight Bedivere and Arthur's foster-brother Cai have sworn fealty to him. Anyone else is going to need convincing."

"And Gwynnever? How is she?"

The dark-haired woman shook her head. "As well as can be expected, the poor girl."

"Yes, that poor child. Such a shame." The silver-haired woman sighed and brought her hands together. "Alliance or no alliance, war or no war, that marriage was a terrible idea; mark my words."

"Well, at least they don't hate each other. We can be thankful for that, if nothing else."

"You are right, Morgaine. We can be thankful for that. Still, I have a bad feeling about this union. Somehow, I just know that no good will come of it." The silver-haired woman turned her head towards the lake. "I wish I could tell you more."

There was a pause in the conversation, and after a few minutes I grew bored with simply watching them and turned back the way I had come. I had only taken a few steps, however, when I heard the silver-haired woman speak again.

"Morgaine," she said, "I do believe we have a guest."

I stopped, my whole body going rigid. _How could she see me through all this fog?_ I wondered. I turned around, and to my utter astonishment, both the silver-haired woman and her companion – Morgaine – were right behind me, when they had been on the dock only moments before.

_That _was when the old instincts took over. I started to back away, but the mud was slippery and unstable and I moved too fast to keep my footing, and I fell backwards into the half-liquid sand, splattering mud in all directions. I can remember the adrenaline and the panic and trying to stand up again and the mud sliding under my feet and the tears that started to fall down my cheeks – and then I remember a cool, soft hand lifting my chin up to look into steel-grey eyes.

"There's no need to be afraid," Morgaine said to me. "We aren't going hurt you. It's all right, little one, it's all right. Nobody's going to hurt you."

I would spend years listening to her say that mantra, or one of much the same nature, and it always had the same mollifying effect on me. To this day, I'll often hear her voice in my ear when my panic gets the better of me, though I'm not sure if the voice comes from my memories or if Morgaine sends it to me via telepathy, calming me as though I'm her young charge again.

Regardless, my child self calmed at her words, and she helped me stand and get some of the mud off of my shift. Morgaine spoke to me and stroked my hair until my eyes dried and I was relaxed again.

"Where is your family, little one?" Morgaine said. I could only shrug; I'd never really had one. Or at least, one that I could remember.

"He doesn't have one," the silver-haired woman said. "The boy has never had a family." Again, she looked out over the lake, but this time there was only a brief pause before she said, "You must take him with you to Camelot."

"What? Why?" Morgaine said.

"He needs to learn how to interact with his people. And he needs to be looked after."

"But why Camelot? Why not just –" Morgaine's eyes widened. "Does this have something to do with Arthur?"

"Not exactly. In a way it does, but in the grand scheme of things, the child won't have much to do with your brother."

"What do you mean, Nyneve?"

The silver-haired woman – Nyneve – placed a hand on Morgaine's shoulder and gave her a small smile. "You will understand in time, my child. For now, take him to your brother's court in Camelot. The truth will be revealed when the time is right. Do you understand?"

Morgaine opened her mouth to protest, but, as she told me later, she realized she was not going to win, and nodded.

"Very good. Now, we should be off. This fog won't last much longer." She was right about that; the fog was much thinner than it was when I had first come upon them. Nyneve started walking towards the dock, gesturing for us to follow.

Morgaine knelt beside me. "Are you afraid of boats, little one?" I shook my head. I had never been on a boat, so I couldn't be afraid of one. "Good, because we're going to be taking a long ride in one, all right?" I nodded. "Then we best get on. Come along now." Morgaine started after Nyneve and I followed, toddling after her with my still-slippery feet.

The boat's rocking felt a bit strange to me, but I wasn't bothered by it. In fact, I thought it felt quite comfortable, once you got used to it. I sat next to Morgaine while Nyneve went to the prow of the boat and pulled out a long oar, which she used to row us away from the dock and into Llyn Llydaw.

As we went along, the fog lifted, and I saw the sky for the first time since evening had fallen. I remember thinking that the stars seemed so very small against the black expanse of sky, and that the moon was very close to being full, though not quite. I remember it being bright enough for me to see the trees, albeit not very clearly, and I remember the moon's reflection on the water, often disturbed by the movement of our boat.

I don't know how long it took, but the late hour and the boat's rocking had a somnolent effect on me, and it wasn't long before I was yawning and rubbing my eyes. Morgaine, of course, noticed.

"Are you tired?" she said. I nodded. "Would you like to lie down?" Again, I nodded.

Morgaine unfastened her cloak and wrapped it around me, claiming the chill didn't bother her. Then she let me lie down on the bench with my head in her lap. I looked towards the sky and waited to fall asleep. Just as my exhaustion was about to claim me, however, I saw something in the heavens above me. It lasted for only a second, but I could have sworn I saw a line appear in the stars and then vanish just as suddenly as it had appeared.

"Did you see that?" Morgaine said.

"Yes," said Nyneve. "A falling star."

Morgaine looked down at me with a smile. "Make a wish, little one. Wish on a falling star and the wish will come true."

I stared up at the sky the star had fallen from. I remember wondering if the star had fallen by accident and if it was hurt by its fall and wanted to return back to the sky with the other stars. I decided that if I was going to wish on a star that wanted to be with other stars, than I would bloody well use that wish to put the star back in the sky were it belonged.

"I wish…" I said, my voice faint from disuse and fatigue.

"You wish?" Morgaine said. But she didn't find out what I wished for that day, because at that moment, my exhaustion enveloped me. I felt my eyes close and I fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**November 1, circa 489 A.D.**

**Northern Wales**

I can no longer remember when I woke up. I don't know if it was before or after Nyneve docked the boat and let us off; I don't know if it was dawn or late in the morning or early in the afternoon; I don't know if it was right after we started riding or well after the fact. No, the next clear memory is me sitting with Morgaine on a grey draft horse, riding through the Welsh countryside west of Snowdon Mountain. I remember how strange riding that first horse was; I wasn't frightened, per se, but I was a fair ways off the ground, and the motion of the horse was a touch unsettling. I clung onto Morgaine and prayed to…was it God? I can't remember. It might have been, but I don't recall believing in God at that age. Regardless, I prayed to whoever might be listening that I wouldn't fall off the horse and break my neck.

All through the ride, Morgaine talked to me. She told me about the castle we were going to, which was called Camelot. She told me about the knights – Launcelot and Gawain, Trystan and Cai, Perceval and Bedivere and Yvain, Launcelot's young nephew Galahad and his friends Dagonet and Bohort. She told me about her brother, King Arthur, his wife Gwynnever, the wizard Merlin, and –

...

...

Oh, bloody hell.

_This _is why I try not to think about these things. It's too difficult, too…upsetting.

There were two boys close to my age at Camelot: Arthur's son and heir Llacheu, and Morgaine's son Medraut. They were very different, but also had a great deal in common. Both of them were beloved by Arthur. Both of them were good men with the best of intentions. Both of them were caught in a vicious power struggle by the age of twenty-one. Both of them died before their twenty-fifth birthday. Both of them found their way into my heart.

And both of them broke it.

It was late in the evening when we came to the castle of Camelot. The sun had set behind the trees, leaving only a line of blue that fast decayed into the blackness. There were a few stars, but not many yet. The moon was a little fuller than the night before, and the light from it made the granite walls glow around the ivy that clung to the bricks. Yellow-orange light shone in the windows, and voices and music were to be heard in every corner of the courtyard. That first image is always how I see Camelot in my mind's eye. At least, until I remember the evil times.

Morgaine deposited the horse in the stables and we walked through the castle courtyard towards the great hall.

"Don't be afraid of the knights," she told me. "They can be a touch rowdy, but they're good men, every one of them. And don't be put off by Gwynnever; she's just shy. And don't be afraid of Arthur or Merlin; they aren't going to hurt you." She gave me a small smile. "And don't worry about not getting along with anyone. I'm sure you'll fit right in."

I nodded as Morgaine pushed open the door to the hall and gestured me in.

The great hall was a very square room and very large; it must have been close to ten meters across. The ceiling was high and held up with wooden beams that crossed at odd angles. Four long tables went the length of the hall, with a fifth at the far end on a dais. A great blaze burned from the fireplace, and the crests of the king and his knights rested over the mantelpiece.

Three of the four main tables were crammed with people; however, the table in the lower left corner had only seven men seated at it. One of them looked up as Morgaine and I came in. He was about twenty, light blond and had very dark blue-violet eyes. He looked a bit like Norway, now that I think about it, only this man smiled more.

"Good evening, Morgaine," he said. "Arthur almost thought you wouldn't make it till the morrow."

"If I was going to be late, Nyneve would have sent word. Honestly, Arthur does worry too much sometimes." Morgaine said.

"He does at that, my lady," said the knight, the ghost of a smile on his lips. Then he caught sight of me, and raised an eyebrow. "What have we here?"

Before Morgaine could answer, another voice called out. "Hail, lady aunt! What news from the Lady of the Lake?" One of the other men at the table stood up and strode over to us. He was a mustachioed man in his mid-twenties with tanned skin, thick chestnut hair, and bright hazel eyes. He came to stand in front of Morgaine, towering over us like Big Ben over London, and spotted me. He grinned and said, "Hail, child! What brings you to Camelot?"

"I…ah…" I was having one hell of a time concentrating, partly because I didn't know what to say, and partly because I could not help but marvel at how bloody _huge_ this man was; I'd never seen anyone so tall before. Granted, I had had little contact with people and I was a ridiculously small child, but still. The man was a mountain. "Ah…hail, sir knight. I, ah…what brings me to Camelot is, ah…" I pointed at Morgaine. "Her, sir. She brought me."

The knight laughed. He had one of those wonderful big laughs that seem to come straight from one's stomach. "We seem to have us a good, frank young sir. I like that, I do." He pointed his thumb at his chest. "Well I, young sir, am Gawain, knight to the king, and this," he pointed at the other knight, the blond one, "is Perceval, another knight to the king."

"Hello," I said.

"Hello," Perceval said back. "But now you have us at a disadvantage. Would you mind telling us what _your_ name is, boy?"

I started. Damn, I didn't have a name. "I, ah…well, I…you see…"

"Cat got your tongue, boy?" A third knight had come to stand behind Perceval. He was a great deal smaller than Gawain but not much younger, and his skin was very pale, almost sallow. He had burgundy hair that hung in loose curls around his head and eyes that were an electric blue. The angle he was standing at gave me a good view of the crescent-shaped scar on his left cheek, the top of which just barely brushed his bottom eyelid.

Gawain growled. "What are you doing here, Launcelot?"

"I work here," Launcelot replied. I can still remember how heavy his French accent was, and how utterly pissed off he could sound, even if he was in a decent mood. "Why wouldn't I be here?"

"I thought you were on an errand for the king," said Gawain.

"I came back hours ago. Didn't you notice?" He turned back to me. "Now, what is your name and what is your business here, boy? And speak quickly; we don't have all night."

"I, ah…" I looked at my feet, my face flushed. "I don't have a name, sir."

"Now why not?"

"He doesn't have a family, Launcelot," Morgaine said. "Your aunt says that he's never had one. She's the one who told me to bring him here."

"I was asking the boy, Morgaine, not you."

"Launcelot, that is quite enough. Can you not leave off for one night?"

Launcelot stood there for a moment, his arms crossed and his foot tapping. Then, he picked up his wine goblet, pinching the stem between his thumb and his index finger, a sly smile on his lips.

"Fine," he said. "But the boy still needs a name. As the rest of you have yet to put one forth, I suggest he be named in honour of our glorious king. Are there any objections?" No one raised any. "Then before these witnesses, I dub thee Arthur Lake-child, ward of the realm and subject of Arthur, king of the Britons. So mote it be!" And with that, he tipped his goblet and poured the remainder of his wine over my head.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**November 1, circa 489 A.D.**

**Camelot**

I am pleased to report that right after this announcement I uttered my first unstuttered sentence of the evening:

"The bloody hell was that for?" 'That,' of course, referred to the wine now dripping from the ends of my hair.

I felt a sharp pain as Gawain cracked me upside the head. "That be foul language, young Arthur," he said. "Don't make a habit of using it."

I rubbed the side of my cheek and mumbled an apology. To his credit, Gawain never struck me again, but his warning against swearing never did sink in.

"So the kid's to be called Arthur now, eh?" Another one of the knights, a man of about thirty or thereabouts with long, honey blond hair tied back in a short ponytail, coppery eyes and a bad complexion, had come over to our small gathering. He smirked. "He don't look a thing like me brother, Launce."

"I don't recall _asking_ you, Sir Cai," Launcelot said. "And kindly refrain from calling me that."

"Now why not? I'm just bein' sociable, ye know, chattin' up me friends and all. Don't see why ye have so unpleasant 'bout it."

Launcelot rolled his eyes and looked over at the man standing next to Cai. He was small and a great deal younger than Cai, perhaps eighteen, with sun-darkened skin, ink-coloured hair and the wateriest blue eyes. It was only on closer inspection that one noticed the scar on his lip and the missing right hand.

"Bedivere," Launcelot said, "how do you put up with this man?"

Bedivere chuckled and crossed his arms over his chest. "I don't. I just make sure he eats, bathes, and doesn't get too drunk. Oh, and that he doesn't do anything stupid when he _is _too drunk. What on earth makes you think I put up with him, Launcelot?"

Ah, Cai and Bedivere, Arthur's rough-round-the-edges foster brother and his infinitely more sensible friend. I imagine that had Austria and Lukas been around when Bedivere made that statement, they would have drunk to it.

"The two of you are practically joined at the hip. How can you _not _put up with him?"

Bedivere smirked. "I have ways."

"Ah, c'mon, Bedwyr; ye know ye like bein' 'round me." Cai grinned and pulled Bedivere into a one-armed embrace.

Nobody believed me when I told them, but I swear that Bedivere stiffened. Not very much, mind, just a touch, but enough to be noticeable. I waited for someone to ask him what the matter was, but before anyone else could notice he pulled himself loose and shook a finger at his friend. "How much have you had to drink, Cai?"

"He hasn't had much." A new knight had joined the circle. He was an effeminate twenty-five-year-old man, with hair that was a very light shade of red and dark brown eyes that were always squinting. I think he was far-sighted. To his left stood a tall man of about the same age, with golden-blond hair and light green eyes. He looked a bit like Germany, actually, except this man wore a beard and Germany (to the best of my knowledge) never did.

"Ah, Trystan," said Morgaine. "How are you doing?"

"Not bad," Trystan said. "Better, I suppose."

"That is good."

"Yes," he said. Then he turned to me. "Hello, young Arthur. I am Sir Trystan of Cornwall, and this," he gestured to the man beside him, "is Sir Yvain, son of Urien."

"Hello," I said.

Yvain nodded at me. I once told Francis many centuries later that the man may have looked like a lion (which, if one considers medieval literature, is quite appropriate) but he lacked the cat's roar. At first, however, I was more than a touch confused.

"Um…hello?" I said. He still didn't say anything. "Hello? Can you hear me?"

"Yes," he said, his voice little higher than a whisper.

I started. "I-I-I'm sorry, I di-didn't think you heard me."

"It's all right," Trystan said. "Yvain is more a man of action than of speech. He rarely speaks unless he needs to."

"Oh." I turned to Yvain to apologize again, but he had a small smile on his face, and I took that as a sign that he didn't have any hard feelings against me, and I relaxed and smiled back.

Before any more words could be shared, however, some crashing came from a room to the side, followed by some sputtered oaths.

"Oh dear," said Launcelot, "it's the old wizard again. Come, boys, before we get our heads blown off."

"Now, Launcelot," said Morgaine. "Merlin is a brilliant man."

"Whoever said he wasn't? I just don't want to be on the wrong end of his spells and machines, especially if this is one of his clumsy days." With that, he and the rest of the knights filed out of the great hall.

Morgaine looked down at me. "Believe me, Arthur, Merlin is a genius and a good man. He's just a touch…" She seemed to be struggling to find the right word.

"Odd?" I said with a yawn.

"That's putting it mildly, my dear."

There was a loud _poof! _from the side room as she said that, and great, grey clouds of smoke billowed out. A man of about fifty with a long white beard stumbled out, cursing and hacking fit to cough up a bloody lung.

"Blast that -_cough!_- stupid contraption! -_cough!_- Never know when it's going to -_cough!cough!- _up and – Oh!" He turned around and saw Morgaine. "Oh, Morgaine! I didn't know -_cough!-_that you got back. How's -_cough!-_ Nyneve?"

"She is quite well, Merlin. Are you all right?"

"Me? Oh yes, I'm fine, just fine, it's just that this bloody machine -_cough!_- that I've been trying to work on keeps – Oh, what've we here?" Merlin bent over to look at me over a hawk's beak nose and smiled. "Why, it's a little boy!"

"Yes, indeed," said Morgaine, chuckling just a little. "Merlin, this is Arthur. Nyneve and I found him by the side of the Lake."

"Well, hello there, young Arthur!" Merlin grabbed my hand and started shaking it with such vigor that he damn well nearly ripped my arm off. "I am Merlin; wizard, inventor, and advisor to King Arthur." His eyebrows shot upwards. "Well, blow me down! You and the king have the same name!"

"Yes, sir," I said. "Sir Launcelot, ah, gave it to me, sir. In honor of the king, sir. And then he poured wine on my head, sir."

"Oh, stop with this 'sir' business. Just call me Merlin."

I yawned and rubbed one eye. "Yes Merlin."

"Good boy!" He straightened up. "Now, there is a great deal to be done, but it is late and the child is no doubt tired, so we can worry about everything tom – Oh, for heaven's sake!" I followed Merlin's glare to two diminutive figures standing in front of the door to the stairwell. "I thought I sent you two off to bed!"

"You did," said one, a sandy-haired boy slightly taller than the other. "But we heard a noise and woke up."

"Oh, what noise could have been loud enough to -?"

What happened next is permanently etched into my memory.

"Merlin," said the other boy, "it's really hard to sleep through your machines blowing up." He peered around the sandy-haired boy, and his eyes widened as he saw me. "Oh! Llacheu, look! It's another boy!"

The child pushed past his compatriot and ran over to where Morgaine, Merlin and I were standing. He came to a stop in front of me, and my breath caught in my throat.

The boy was about the same age as me, and close to the same height. He was moonfaced and pale, with short, blue-black hair that always had a stray strand in the center of his forehead. He was in a sleeping shift and wore a pendant with a single aquamarine hanging from it. What had caught my attention, however, were his eyes.

His eyes. Even if I live to be a million years old I will never know anyone with eyes like his. They were silver, with a dark blue ring around each pupil. They were clear, focused, bore straight ahead, and left me rooted to the spot.

Even at that age, I couldn't help but find them magical, exotic, intense, and even – I will say it –beautiful.

"What's your name?" the boy asked.

"His name is –" Morgaine was cut off when Merlin placed a hand on her shoulder and shook his head. Then his eyes met mine, and he gestured at the boy.

I stepped away from Morgaine and held out my hand. "My name is Arthur," I said.

He took my hand and smiled. "Hello, Arthur. My name is Medraut."


End file.
